


Love You Again; Loved You Always

by mktellstales



Series: Watson - Holmes Verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After so many years together, Angst, Arguments, Canon Compliant, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Happy Ending, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Parentlock, Past Infidelity/Affair, The possible dissolution of their relationship, things are bound to start to fall apart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 17:57:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3538787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mktellstales/pseuds/mktellstales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After fourteen years of their 'marriage' and twenty years of their friendship, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes have hit endured what might be the final crack they can handle.<br/>John refuses to let the best thing that has ever happened to him, just disintegrate into nothing, so he offers up a holiday weekend, where they can work through the the things that have been plaguing their relationship</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love You Again; Loved You Always

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little bit of writing therapy! Something to help ease my writers block and some of the things I'm going through in my personal life.  
> It is the first of at least a two part series. 
> 
> I do hope you enjoy it :) Let me know if you do!

"It's raining again." John said.

Sherlock looked up from his tablet. He watched the way the raindrops hit against the window, and burst into long lines that flowed down into the seams of the sill. He glanced over at John, standing there with a feeble smile drawn across his lips, but he said nothing.

When Sherlock's attention was brought back to the screen in front of him, John let the curtains fall, blocking out the street below them, and sighed, not knowing what to do with himself. He had an article dog eared in his latest issue of The Lancet, but he didn't feel like sitting down to read anything. He could make tea, but then he would have to offer some to Sherlock, and communication, obviously, was not in the cards for the rest of their evening. There was always the option to take a shower, though John had been taking quite a few of those, and his skin was starting to feel the consequences in the cool, dry weather.

Maybe he would try the tea.

"Sherlock, do you want a cuppa?"

"No."

The answer was short, and clipped, and it made John's chest hurt; it made Sherlock feel strange as well. He didn't understand why it seemed that neither of them wanted to break the anger that built up between them.

John went into the kitchen, still a bit of a mess from dinner, and started the kettle. While he waited for it to boil, he ran hot water in the basin, and set the dishes in to soak away the curry remnants before they stained the plates yellow. When the kettle boiled, and he had made his tea, John brought his cup back into the living room, and curled his feet underneath his bottom in the chair.

He sat there, blowing against the steam and creating ripples through the amber colored liquid.

"Are you coming to bed tonight?" Sherlock asked.  The sound cutting through their self imposed silence like a train whistle barreling through the night.

"Yes, eventually. I don't want to kids to wake up with me on the sofa again."

"I don't think we're keeping anything from them anymore, do you?"

"Would you rather I didn't come to bed? Is that what you're saying?"

"No. I'm saying that they know what's been going on between us. Where you sleep and where they find you isn't going to make any difference to them."

"Do they? Then maybe I should ask them, because I have no idea what's been going on between us. I _know_ that I love you, but I also know that I don't _feel_ like I do."

"Knowing is more important than feeling."

John moved Sherlock's tablet from his lap onto the table next to the chair and knelt down in front of him, his palms firmly planted on the silk of Sherlock's dressing gown draping over his thighs.

"My feelings for you have been the most important thing to me for the last twenty years, long before I even knew I was in love with you. To be doubting them now, it scares me, Sherlock."

Sherlock leaned forward in the chair, so that their foreheads were even with one another. He closed his eyes, but remained silent, much like he did for most of their conversations. He studied John's face, and if he reached out to touch him, he would be able to feel the hope that laid in every beautiful wrinkle.

"I'm going to bed." he said, and watched the light in John's eyes fade away.

John stood up, and set himself down on the sofa just as Sherlock slid out from the leather chair, and disappeared down the hallway without another word, another glance; nothing more at all.

The house was quiet, and felt empty without anyone else in the room with him; even the dog was sleeping in Emily's bedroom. John thought it was too much space to begin with when he and Sherlock went to see it. They only had Emily then, and the three of them fit fine in the flat on Baker Street, but the empty rooms soon filled up with Sherlock's experiments, and case notes, and before either of them even realized they had made the decision, the last room was filled with the cries of twin boys.

But, right in that moment, it felt as though John was the only one who existed. Just him and the patter of rain against the window.

He finished his tea; cold, and left the cup on the table. He could easily lie down on the pillow for the sofa and cover up with the blanket folded across the back. It wouldn't be the first night, not even the first night that week, and Sherlock was probably right about the children; they knew something was wrong with their parents, regardless of how the two of them tried to cover it up.

John didn't want to be alone. He wanted to feel Sherlock, even if it was just the brush of his feet through the sheets. He wanted his partner, his lover; his husband in every sense of the word.

Men had swallowed their pride for far less.

He turned off the lights in the living room, and navigated down the hall. The door was cracked open, and John pushed it the rest of the way.

Sherlock was in bed, blankets wrapped around his waist. John slipped in beside him, and  listened to him breathe.

"You can move closer, I won't bite."

"Even if I asked you to?"

Sherlock turned onto his side, and searched for John's face in the sleepy haze of the dark. He rested his fingers on John's chin, and pulled their mouths together in a slow, timid kiss.

It had been ages, or at least felt as so, since their lips mashed and their tongues swirled. And when the hesitancy wore off, they both started to wonder why.

John dug his nails into Sherlock's bare back, and Sherlock sunk his teeth into John's neck.

A desperate cry escaped John's throat as he heard the pop of skin, and felt the smallest trickle of blood rise up against the remaining layers.

There was a hunger inside both that kept growing with each taste, and each touch. John and Sherlock were certain that too close was never going to be close enough.

"I love you, Sherlock." John whispered against his ear after pushing Sherlock against the headboard and climbing into his lap. "Tell me that you love me too." he continued.

"You know that I do."

"I know, but, say it, please."

John was disgusted with himself, begging the way he was for just a silly string of words, but he knew if he didn't hear them, he was going to cry or be sick.

He had his hands gripped at the jutting bones of Sherlock's shoulders, and he rocked his pelvis, against the other man's.

"Please." he asked again, throwing his head back into the air.

Sherlock took tight purchase on John's hips, pushing their erections together even  harder. He wouldn't admit to anyone if they asked, but he missed everything about their bodies trying to move together as one.

He slipped his fingers through Johns hair and pulled his head back until their lips could touch again; frantic, mad; desperate.

"I love you." he finally said through a harsh breath.

The raging fire inside John's stomach finally flamed out, and he slumped against Sherlock's shoulder, catching his breath. He still felt like he might cry

He sat there like that for so long, that Sherlock had to lift him from his lap, and lie him down on his own pillow.

They didn't wish each other a good night, didn't declare a love that wasn't brought on by the burgeoning desire of orgasm. They simply found their respective sides, turned their back to one another, and went to sleep.

In the morning,  they did wake together, with a silent awkwardness reminiscent of John's university days.

They habitually wrapped in their dressing gowns, shared the space in the bathroom, each spending a considerable amount of time staring at their graying hair in the mirror. John's was speckled with bright silver strands in and out of his ashen blonde, and Sherlock had a patch of silver just by each of his ears.  When they were finished being vain, they left the room and followed the sound of curiously hushed voices in the kitchen.

The breakfast table had three mugs of tea, and a plate of toast crumbs dabbed with fallen jam. Emily sat between her brothers, her hair, blonde, and far passed her shoulders; eyes bright green. She looked so much like her mother that it was almost a shame she had no memory of the woman her father once called his wife.

The boys, Ethan and Finn, looked like their father, with inky curls that spiraled out of control.

The voices stopped all together when Sherlock and John walked into the kitchen, and each child buried their face in their tea.

"Conspiring, are we?" John asked, filling up the kettle while Sherlock filled two small, metal tea balls with loose leaf that they tried to keep for themselves, though the canister was looking rather empty.

"We aren't." Emily said.

"Up before noon  on a Saturday. You're conspiring.? Sherlock said, reaching between them and plucking the honey from the table.

"The trash lorry woke us up."

"Oh. I see."

Sherlock dropped the balls into the mugs, waiting with milk and honey, and John poured the boiling water, splashing some back on his hand.

"So, what do we all have on for today?" John asked.

"Star Wars Marathon." Ethan and Finn yelled out together.

"I thought maybe I could have a couple of friends over; if that's okay?"

John blew over the rim of his mug, "I won't be home. Ask your father."

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked.

"I was going to pop into the clinic. I have a filing disaster. Unless, I mean- did you have something you wanted us to do, today?"

"No. I just didn't know you wouldn't be home. Emily, you may have two people over."

"Thank you." she said with a smile, and rushed away from the table, pulling her  mobile out from the pocket of her sleeping shorts.

"You two," John started, turning to look at his sons, "Can watch your movies after you've cleaned your room. I asked you on Thursday, and your father asked you yesterday, and it's still a mess. "

"We can't fit anymore clothes in the laundry basket." Finn said.

"Then maybe, you should wash them."

He groaned, along with Ethan, and the two of them left the table as well, dragging their feet all the way upstairs and to their bedroom.

John and Sherlock sat in silence, drinking their tea. It wasn't a necessarily uncomfortable silence, and for that, they each were grateful.  There were some moments in the day that things felt normal, like they weren't falling apart at the seams.

"How long do you plan on being out?" Sherlock asked.

"A few hours. Is there somewhere you need to be today?"

"No. Lestrade is bringing by some cold case files he wants me to go over. Just curious, I suppose."

John smiled, and brushed his foot along the muscle of Sherlock's shin, "Going to miss me, are you?"

"Hardly." Sherlock answered, wrapping a smirk around the rim of his mug.

Their feet found each other underneath the table, sliding and hooking like young kids trying to hide their affection. Sherlock's toes climbed their way up the fabric of John's sleep trousers until they reached the hollow of his groin.

John closed his eyes at the sensation. It was so light that it was almost non-existent. He wanted to give in to the spontaneity; to keep things feeling normal between the two of them, because he couldn't think of any real reason why they shouldn't, but the same thing that made him burn up with anxious desire last night, made him abruptly pull away and stand.

"The kids - would be awkward." he said.

Sherlock rested his foot where it fell on the empty chair and took a sip of his tea, "Of course."

John smiled the best apology he could find, and left to wash up for the day.

The Holmes-Watson morning went on, with Finn and Ethan shoving their clothes, and too much soap into the washing machine. Emily was in the living room, upside down on the sofa, tapping her foot against the, in time to the music Sherlock put on over the stereo, and John slipping on his shoes by the front door.

By the time he left, the boys replaced their sister on the sofa, the beginning of their six film marathon already in front of them, and Sherlock in a chair, trying his best not to kick the television over.

The rain from the night before was still in small puddles on the pavement and the side of the streets, but John chose to walk the same path he always did to the coffee shop a couple of blocks away, before getting a cab to the clinic.

It was a small shop, and the same two baristas were always there when John stopped in; he started to think a long time ago that they might be the only people who worked there. They were past university, but still in their twenties. The girl, June, had long black hair with a variety of changing colors underneath, and the boy, Oliver, was blonde. From the casual glances they made between orders, and the slide of a hand over the back pockets of denim jeans, John knew they were dating, and they still thought it was something that would last forever - after all, you aren't with Sherlock Holmes for twenty years without picking up a thing or two about the science of deduction.

While he was waiting in line, John watched them, and his mind started to wander, like it often did each morning he saw the pair- June, with her wrists tied to the posts of a bed, and a blindfold across her eyes while he and Oliver  kissed along her naked body until their own lips met at the cusp of her bellybutton.

"Good morning, Doctor."

John shook his head clear of his thoughts, and came back to the reality of Oliver's smile behind the counter.

"Sorry; good morning."

"Don't often see you on Saturday. The usual?"

"No milk today."

"As you like it." he said with a wink, and left the register with a small paper cup .

John watched him press the lever of the carafe,  and fill it before securing the plastic lid, and bringing it back to the register. John exchanged his five quid for the cup.

"Thank you."

"Have a good day, Doctor."

John smiled, and left his dirty thoughts behind at the ring of the door bell, and caught a cab on the corner.

While John was handling the files he had let pile up at work, Sherlock was nursing a headache with an afternoon glass of wine.

"Ethan, would you please turn down the television." he asked, for what was at least the fifteenth time in as many minutes.

"But, dad, if we turn it down anymore, we won't be able to hear it. This isn't one of your boring news shows; you have to have it loud."

" _I_ don't even have to have it on, so turn. it. down."

Ethan rolled his eyes, and turned the volume down even more before leaning against the arm of the sofa, sulking. Finn, having moved from the sofa down to the floor during the last film, turned to laugh at him. Sherlock let out a relieved breath and finished the last few gulps if wine in his glass.

The buzzer rang, and before Sherlock could unglue himself from his chair, Emily came barreling down the stairs, her hair tied up in braids, and a flowing skirt trailing behind her in the wind she was creating.

"I'll get it!" she yelled, and barely had enough time to stop herself before running into the front door.

She smoothed herself out, and opened it up with a smile that quickly faded  when, instead of her friends, she saw the silver hair superintendent of The Met with a cardboard box in his hands.

"Oh, Greg, it's just you."

"Nice to see you, too." he said with a laugh.

"She's expecting a boy." Sherlock said, suddenly standing behind her.

"What? No, I'm not; just friends."

"The last time you had just friends over, you never bothered to get dressed out of your pyjamas, today you look like you could be going to church."

"It's a new skirt."

Sherlock shook his head, "You bought it six months ago."

Emily pouted out her lip, and bent underneath Sherlock's arm to sulk on the sofa next to Ethan.

"Just you and the kids today?" Greg asked, stepping inside, and setting the box down by the door.

"John went into work. You wouldn't happen to have any current murder cases, would you?"

"I'm afraid you're stuck with the cold ones, but if anything changes, I'll ring you. Besides, you never know where one of those might lead you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I hate cold cases. Everyone is always old and doesn't remember anything anymore. The human memory is a sad state as it is."

"Well, I thank you for giving these another look."

"Yes, Yes. Good day now, Lestrade."

Greg nodded, and left with a click of the door. Sherlock picked up the box, and brought it into the spare room on the bottom level that served as his office. He poured another glass of wine; something he enjoyed more and more as he aged, and opened the top to get to work.

He sorted through the photos and notes, putting the files into stacks - ones he could solve quickly, ones that would need more time, and others that he wanted to discuss with John. Since John leased his own clinic eight years ago, they hadn't done much casework together, but his was still the only other opinion Sherlock would ever trust.

Somewhere between yet another glass of wine, and his third paper cut, Sherlock heard the buzzer ring again, and several seconds later, the overwhelming sound of teenage voices; one of them clearly male, just as Sherlock knew.

It was three hours that passed when the front door opened and John came inside to a mess that wasn't there when he left.

Finn and Ethan were both on the floor underneath more blankets than two people needed on a September afternoon, and an almost empty bowl of popped corn spilt over to their side. On the sofa, Emily was resting her head against the shoulders of a boy John wasn't sure he'd seen before, and had her feet across the lap of a girl he did recognize. And the television, was blaring.

"Where is your father?" John asked to no answer. He picked up the remote control, lying in an empty chair and muted the film.

"Where is your father?" he asked again.

"In his office." Finn answered.

""Turn the film down, pick up your mess, and Emily, sit up." John barked before leaving them and going down the hallway.

He knocked on the closed door, but opened it without waiting for an answer. Sherlock's back was to him, hunched over his cluttered desk. There were new photos taped up over the bright blue wallpaper, and post it notes surrounding them like a frame.

It was always good to see Sherlock Holmes at work.

"You lost control of your troops out there." John said, walking up behind him and resting a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm not sure I ever had any to begin with. We absolutely have to provide them shelter until their eighteen?"

John laughed, "That's what the law says. Did you meet Emily's boy friend?"

"No. Did you?"

"Not yet. I like to give them a false sense of security before I casually let them see a gun in my waistband."

"If every man were like you, I might not have waited so long to give that love thing a try." Sherlock said, and placed his hand across John's.  Only, once the words Sherlock just said connected with the shared touch of their skin, John pulled away.

"What did I do now?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing. Your hand was cold."

"There's no need to lie to me, John. You and I both know that you've been pulling away from me for some time now, and I don't just mean physically."

"What has there been to pull away from? Rare moments of weakness aside, you've been dethatched since the beginning.

"But you've always know that about me, and you'd never let it interfere with your affection toward me before."

John took a deep breath. He knew, he'd always known what it was that held him back in the moments where he couldn't stand to even be breathing the same air as Sherlock, and he had to think that Sherlock knew too, he just didn't want to admit to it.

"Alright, Sherlock. Would you like to know why I started to pull away, why all of your inhuman eccentricities stopped being endearing?"

Sherlock flinched at the word _inhuman_. It never sounded so ugly and painful as it did coming out of John's mouth.

"Yes, I would."

"I know that you had an affair.." John said calmly.

Sherlock blinked as though he was stunned, and maybe a part of him was to hear it, but every time John recoiled, or started a row for no good reason, Sherlock knew it was because of the mistake he had made.

"John, that- that was a long time ago."

"I know, and for four years I've been trying to forgive you. Or at least understand why you did it."

"It never meant anything."

"Didn't it?"

"Of course not."

"It took you seven years to admit that you were in love with me - I'm not delusional as to think that I'm the only person you've ever been in love, but I'm the only one you couldn't walk away from, and I know it wasn't sex for the sake of sex, because we've always had great sex, and until me, your body was always just transport anyway, right? So, there had to have been a reason, a connection with him stronger than outs, to make you do it."

"Will knowing what it was make you feel any better?"

"So, you did feel something for him?

"I don't know, John."

"You know everything."

"Well, I don't know that!" Sherlock shouted, sliding everything off from his desk in frustration.

"That's bullshit, Sherlock. You know, you just don't want to tell me. Another secret that you're going to keep hidden away, because you think the truth is going to hurt me. All these years, and you still don't realize that the only time I've ever truly hurt is every time you try to protect me."

"I told you, I don't know the answer your question. And that is the truth."

"No, love, the truth is that if we don't fix this, I'm not sure I can stay. But more than that, I don't know if I even want to try."

John left the office with a slam of the door, and leaned against it to let himself slide down to the floor. He hugged his knees into his chest, and rested his head on his arms.

This was not where he ever imagined they would end up, and it was not where he wanted to be. He let out a tired breath, and heard the television once again from the living room, reminding him that, much as he may have wanted to, he couldn't dwell in his sadness.

"Sorry, is it too loud again?" Finn asked, when John appeared back in the same room as them.

John shook his head and sat down in the empty chair, "No. It's fine."  He looked over to the sofa, where Emily had straightened out and was now sitting in between her two friends.

Still sitting in the chair, still feeling defeated, he leaned over and outstretched his hand to the boy, "Dr. John Watson." he said.

"Liam Braswell." the boy said, clasping John's hand in his, and giving it one firm shake before they let go. "It's nice to meet you." he added.

"You too. Are either of you staying for dinner?

"I have no idea what we're having, but you're welcome."

"Actually dad, I was going to ask if I could go out for dinner; with Liam and Julie."

"Sure. Whatever you'd like. The rest of us will just get take away."

John pushed himself from the chair, and started into the kitchen to look for the menus.  Emily's voice came from behind him not a second later.

"Are you okay? We could hear you and dad fighting. We've heard you fight a lot actually."

"Your father and I fight all the time. You're just older, so you notice it more."

"Really? That's crap."

"Excuse me?"

"You have fought all the time, but you've never looked like this afterward, never spent a night on the sofa, and dad is always on you like a wounded cat afterward, but not lately."

"We'll be fine, Emily." John said, because he didn't know what else to say to her. "Go with your friends. Have a good time."

"I can stay."

"Go. But don't be late"

John watched her bounce from the kitchen, and he leaned against the counter. He replayed everything he had said moments ago to Sherlock, replayed what Emily just brought light for him. Had they both given up on each other? Was that truly what he wanted, or was he just too damn tired?

He went back down the hallway, and opened the door to the office where Sherlock was still picking up remnants of his tantrum.

"We're going on holiday." he said.

"What?"

"I was wrong; what I said earlier. I do want to try, but we can't do it here. Not with the kids, and with work, and everything else that goes on. Just you and I need to get away."

Sherlock looked up at John, an uneven stack of papers held tight against his chest. He licked his lips, and slowly nodded his head.

"Alright." he said. "Whatever you think best."

 

~ *~

 

The room at the Bed and Breakfast felt bigger than the entire island they were staying on. Sherlock whined the entire way there; in the cab, on the train, on the forty minute ferry ride.  He didn't know exactly what it was John wanted to accomplish on this holiday.

He closed the curtains over the glass doors of the balcony where he was looking out at the sea beyond the small hill outside their room, and turned back around to John.

"There truly wasn't anyone else who could have stayed with the children aside from my brother?" he asked.

John sighed, "He had a clear schedule."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and flopped down on the bed, sending the piles of clothes John was putting into the dresser drawer flying off the side and onto the floor.

"You're nearly fifty years old." he said, bending down to pick up the clothes, "are you really going to keep up your childish feud with him?"

"He's fifty three."

John laughed. He left the clothes where they were and laid down next to Sherlock. He was still carrying nervous tension, and he had no idea if a few days away from London was going to fix anything, but he felt like he needed to try. He only hoped that Sherlock felt the same way.

"Look, I know you'd rather be home with your cases, and your experiments, and I know this place is a little...empty, but-" John trailed off, having lost whatever point it was he was trying to make.

He felt Sherlock's hand slip into his, and his fingers rub along his own, knuckle to pad.

"I know." Sherlock said, not having to hear the rest.

They laid there for what might have been hours with nothing but the sound of their breath between them. There was so much that they wanted to say to one another, but they each were afraid. There was hope, but there was no guarantee that when they left that room and got back on the train home, that they would be doing so together, and if these were their last moments, they wanted to savour it.

"Are you hungry?" John asked, finally breaking the silence.

"Yes."

"Do you want to go down to the restaurant or order in here?"

"I think I'd like to stay here."

"Me too."

John slid away from the warmth of Sherlock's side, and opened the room service menu on the small desk in the corner. From the side of his eyes, he watched Sherlock also leave the bed, and bend down in front of the gray stone fireplace , rearranging the logs and striking a long match.

"Do you think they would make me a breakfast crepe for dinner?" John asked.

"I think it's the off season and they'll make anything you ask if it means they get paid."

John laughed, and brought the menu over to Sherlock, draping his arm over the other man's shoulder as he passed it along, and breathing in the smoke that mingled with his cologne. He closed his eyes and nuzzled his face into the crook of Sherlock's neck, and licked at the pumping vein beneath his lips.

"I may not be hungry, after all." he whispered.

Sherlock dropped the menu, and turned around so that he could lift John up from the floor and let him wrap around his waist. They found each other's mouths, and kissed each other breathless until neither could hold on anymore.

Sherlock dropped John down on the bed. He undid the flies of John's jeans and tugged them free. He pulled off John's socks and tossed them somewhere behind him, before taking off his own trousers. He unbuttoned his shirt, and left it hanging on his shoulders, while John pulled his jumper over his head. Sherlock spread apart John's legs to slip in between them. He laid his body flat against John's, causing his thighs to stretch even farther down against the bed, and John's face  winced at the pull in his muscles.

Sherlock lifted himself up when John looked like he couldn't take anymore. The edges of his shirt tickled against John's sides, as he hovered over him, just staring.

"What's wrong?" John asked.

"I had an affair, John, because I wanted to."

John closed his eyes and bit down on his lip. He didn't know when the inevitable was going to begin; truth was, he had been putting it off for as long as possible, but Sherlock, it seemed, had decided to start it.

"What do you mean?" John asked, taking in a few deep breaths and opening his eyes again.

"I wasn't unhappy or feeling any discord between us. I simply met him, was intrigued by him, and wanted to be with him. So, I was."

John felt like all the air was taken out of his lungs. He slithered out from underneath where Sherlock still had him pinned, and sat up.

 "You _wanted_ to?" he asked. "Did you even think?"

"I'm always thinking."

"Did you think about _me_? You-You _wanted_ to? I knew you could be selfish, Sherlock, but I had no idea just how much."

"It didn't have anything to do with you."

"Are you kidding me? It had everything to do with me. For thirty seven days you lied next to someone else, you kissed someone else; you fucked someone else. And then you made a fool out of me by pretending it never happened."

"Do you want to talk about making a fool out of someone? Let's talk about how you lied to me, to yourself; to everyone, and married that woman." Sherlock roared, jumping up and pacing between the bed and windows.

"What you did doesn't even compare to Mary and me. I thought you were dead. I had to move on with my life."

"And when I came back?"

"I had already made a promise to her. And unlike you, I try not to hurt the people I love - or think I love."

"Is that so? You don't think that it didn't hurt when you stood in my kitchen, and told me I was your best friend, both of us knowing you meant more than that? Her shooting me in the chest was far more welcome than her calling herself your wife."

"Is that why you did it then, to get back at me?"

"I told you why I did."

"Right. So then what made you decide you didn't _want_ to anymore?"

Sherlock stopped pacing , and stood still in the center of the room. He didn't tell John about the affair, not because he was trying to protect him, or because he didn't want to hurt him, but because once it was over, Sherlock forgot about it. He didn't delete it; there were things about _the other man_ that Sherlock wanted to remember, but any gravity or importance that their brief relationship held was quickly lost inside his mind, glossed over by the reality he had gone back to.

"I got bored." Sherlock answered.

"Honestly?"

"Yes. After a short time, he was boring, the sex was boring, and so, I told him it was over."

"If he hadn't bored you, would you have left me?"

"If Mary hadn't tried to kill me, would you have stayed with her?"

John didn't have an answer, at least not one that either of them wanted to hear.  If Mary hadn't been the person she was, John didn't know if he would have taken the risk to leave her, and be with Sherlock. John wasn't even the one to make the first move when things finally did shift between the two of them. It was Sherlock who pulled John down from the stairs after putting Emily to sleep, and pinned him between the railing and his body. It was Sherlock who took the fear out of John's eyes, and placed a future on his lips.

"I didn't think so." Sherlock said.

He fell into the chair at the table where they would have eaten their dinner, and where one of John's socks was stuck to the fabric, and pressed his hand against his forehead.

"I never would have stayed with him, because he was always going to end up boring. Just as every man I ever took to bed before him was. Every man except for you. I would never leave you, John. And I will never do anything to hurt you again."  

Sherlock looked across to where John was staring at a broken thread on the duvet. It was a promise he had made before, and one he had broken before. Sherlock didn't blame John if he didn't have the faith to believe to him this time. He sighed, tired; exhausted even, and closed his eyes to wait for the next move.

It could have been hours, could have been minutes; time didn't seem to exist where they were, but however long it was, John got up from the bed, and knelt down in front of Sherlock, like he did so many times he wanted to try and repair the dozens of cracks that had been tearing through their fault line.

"I don't know what would have happened between you and I if things with Mary were different. I probably would have stayed with her, and kept on being miserably in love with you; too afraid you didn't feel the same. With or without Mary - with or without _you_ , I have always been afraid you don't feel the same."

Sherlock gripped onto John's hands and pulled him up into his lap.

"I love our children. I love our home, and I love you, John."

John cupped Sherlock's face in his hand, and kissed him, just a little off center. He didn't know, and Sherlock didn't know how long it would take to repair everything they had let break, but they did know that they wanted to - that they wanted each other, just as they always had.


End file.
